


Five times Balloon John couldn't be what Sherlock needed... and once he was

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Season Four Premiere Flashfic [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Did I mention Fix-It?, Episode Reaction, Episode Related, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Fix-It, HOW DID I MAKE THIS ANGST IT’S ABOUT A BALLOON, Humour, Oh that’s right this show, Spoilers, Written prior to The Lying Detective, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Balloon John tries his best, even though he's just not up to scratch--but sometimes Balloon John is just what's needed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS VERY MUCH SPOILERS for Season 4 Episode 1
> 
> As well as warm cuddles and shock blankets all around.

1:

“John, would you hand me my…”

Sherlock tipped his head sideways on the couch, to catch the eye of… of the red, thoughtful-looking balloon that John had fixed in his chair.

“Oh, never mind,” he said, and turned back to staring at the ceiling.

The text hadn’t been urgent anyway.

 

2:

“John, come on! Get your coat, the game is…”

Sherlock went to grab John by the elbow to hasten him onto his feet and jolted back as he grasped only air, his fingers brushing the taut plastic and making the balloon bounce at the end of its string.

He made a noise of frustration, and then busied himself with getting dressed, turning up his collar with a violent jerk and pulling his sleeves into place with sharp, irritated motions.

Apparently he needed  _time_ , whatever that meant. As if _time_ could change what had happened, could make Mary’s death any less Sherlock’s…

Time.

He’d give John time.

He could keep at least _that_ promise.  Although he’d have to pick up another helium tank soon.

“Don’t wait up,” he called over his shoulder, and slammed the door.

 

3:

“Sherlock, dear… when was the last time you’ve eaten?”

Sherlock turned over on the couch, clutching his dressing gown around him, and pretended not to hear.

“Sherlock, it’s been…”

Mrs Hudson came closer, close enough that Sherlock could tell she wasn’t going to give up easily.

“How long?” she asked sternly.

“This morning,” Sherlock guessed confidently, and sat up, gesturing towards the other armchair. “John always makes sure I have…”

He broke off, remembering.

Mrs Hudson glanced towards John’s chair, pursing her lips at the sight of the balloon’s frozen rictus of intense cogitation.

“Still not talking to you then?” she asked, in a hushed voice, siting beside him and putting one wrinkled hand on his knee.

Sherlock frowned at it.

“Oh, Sherlock. He just needs time. Just a bit of time to grieve. He’ll come around. And he’s busy, too, with little Rosie. You’ll manage to patch it up eventually, you always do. Look, why don’t I bring you up some scones, and a nice cup of tea? Just this once, because I’m not your—”

“Stop being tiresome Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock.  He surged to his feet, pulling away from her and snatching up his violin. “I’m not hungry.”

He launched into a fast and overly loud flurry of music, which drowned out anything more she might have had to say.

As well as the rumbling of his stomach.

 

4:

“… and _that_ , John, is how the grapefruit ended up inside a sealed pasta packet on the greengrocer’s shelf!”

Sherlock’s coat flared out as he spun, and he threw his hands in the air, looking at John for his reward. He’d been _amazing_ on this case; they well were past the point of ‘brilliant’ and into the realm of spontaneous rounds of applause.

In John’s chair, the balloon swayed and tugged at its string in the air currents stirred up by Sherlock’s passage.

Sherlock frowned at it for a moment, and then sat down across from it, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers in front of his nose.

After a moment, he laced his hands together, extending the index fingers towards the balloon briefly before returning them to touch to his lips.

“If this is going to go on like this,” he told it, “you’re going to have to learn to pull your weight.”

 

5:

Sherlock pushed down the corpse’s sock and felt around the top of his shoe, then repeated the process on the other side.

After a moment, he stood, ignoring the strange looks of the ranks of Scotland Yard, and said, “The body belongs to an office worker, who went out for a run in his lunch break, liked to run on the side of the road—note the blackjack caught in his socks. Rolled his ankle, not badly—minor swelling—but enough that he hitched a ride.from a passing motorist, had the bad luck to choose a thief, the bad judgement to resist giving up his valuables. He was killed, and his body dumped here. I don’t imagine the place where he was picked up would be any more than a mile or two back that way.  That’s where we'll find the physical evidence. What do you think, John?” he asked.

There was a silence, or near silence, in which Gordon Lestrade coughed faintly, and then cleared his throat.

“Obvious,” Sherlock told the balloon modestly.

“Is he for real?” whispered Donovan, apparently actually trying not to be overheard, but as incompetent in that as most other things.

“I don’t…” whispered Lestrade in return. “I knew John’s been… _upset_ , but I hadn’t realised it had got this bad.”

Sherlock whirled on them. “John is a perfectly able assistant, and I won’t have you speaking ill of him.”

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade in that tone he got when he was trying to make sure Sherlock was aware of something he thought was very basic, “You haven't brought John with you. What you have _there_ is a balloon with a face drawn on it.”

Sherlock eyed the red balloon bobbing beside him at shoulder-height. “Obviously,” he agreed, unsure how anyone might confuse the two. “And yet he’s _still_  closer to solving this case than either of you. Neither of _you_ noticed the swollen ankle!”

“Sherlock….”

“And!” said Sherlock, brandishing his wrist at Lestrade, making the puzzled looking red face bob at the end of its string. “ _Balloon_  John doesn’t write up blog entries afterwards! This time, Gordon, you can _have_ the credit, and _keep_ it!”

“Sherlock….” repeated Gordon in a broken sort of voice. “I don’t want the credit.”

Sherlock huffed, and swirled away with a satisfyingly dramatic turn of his coat. “We’ll be looking for the crime scene, if you need us. Come along, John!”

As he strode away, Balloon John bobbed along behind, hurrying to keep up.

Sherlock was doing fine. He was going to give John all the _time_ he needed.

 

+1:

“Well it ain’t gonna make much difference what you know, is it, smarty-pants, coz you ain’t gonna get the chance to tell _no-one_!”

There was a loud, echoing explosion inside the flat (too loud, why was it too loud?) as the man fired at Sherlock, who was already moving, swinging the poker like a desperately flailing sword and catching the gunman a solid blow on the side of the head, before turning to check on—

“John!” yelled Sherlock in panic. John had been _hit_ , hit by the bullet from the gun Sherlock had forced away from him, the bullet meant for Sherlock...

Sherlock didn’t even check that the gunman was knocked out before diving for his friend’s chair, on his knees in front of it, scrabbling, hoping… but when he emerged, all that remained was a sad remnant, still tied at the end of its useless string.

Sherlock cradled it in his hands, staring at the shrunken, misshapen remains of its face.

He'd promised to protect it.

It was his fault.

“John,” he repeated softly, staring at the limp bit of red rubber, not quite certain why his throat was feeling thick, or when the pen lines made clear and sharp by the deflation had become blurred again.

John was gone.

“ _John_.”

He’d promised to protect them. He’d made a vow; he’d told her that if she came back, he could keep her safe.

He’d liked Mary, really liked her. And she’d liked him, too. Better than John had, most of the time. She'd understood him. Better than Mycroft had, pretty much all the time.

There weren’t many people who did either, not really.

And now there was one less.

Two less.

Because John.

John was.

Gone.

Just like Mary.

Forever.

John would _never_ forgive him, not for this. Not for his arrogance. His hubris. Not for getting Mary killed.

“John,” he repeated, and this time it came out as a visceral moan as he pressed the wet, broken bit of rubber to his heart, over the knotted scar where Mary’s bullet had hit him, and where the bullet meant for him had hit Mary. His bullet. His appointment in Samarra. His fault. He hadn’t saved her.

Sherlock couldn’t even keep a _balloon_ safe.

“John,” he murmured hopelessly.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock shot to his feet, his head snapping around to look at the doorway to the stairwell, where John Watson stood, his feet still on the other side of the door-frame as though unsure of his welcome, his shoulders a little hunched and his neck extended to see into the room without trespassing.

“Uh,” he said. “Hi.”

Sherlock stared, as John looked about the room, taking in the tipped over furniture and the smashed mug; the unconscious man on the floor in front of the fireplace, the poker Sherlock had dropped, forgotten, beside his head.

“Um… interesting case?”

Sherlock stared, as John picked his way over to the fallen man but didn’t crouch down, frowning at the gun fallen inches from his hand. He kicked it away under the sofa where it couldn’t be retrieved quickly.

“I’m assuming he’s a friend of yours?”

Sherlock stared, as John nudged the man with a toe, tilting his head on one side to get a better look at the purple contusion on his temple before apparently deciding he would be fine. Then he looked properly at Sherlock, brow dipping in instant concern.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

Sherlock stared, as the creases around John’s eyes tucked in, as his mouth went tight and unhappy, as he ran a hand up the back of his neck.

“Ah…” he said. “All right. You’re like that at the moment, are you?”

Sherlock stared, as John came back over to stand in front of him and shifting from one foot to the other, then back, until he finally fell into parade rest and went still.

“Look,” said John. “Sherlock. After Mary died, I said…”

Sherlock stared, as John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out, and opened them again.

“In my note, I asked for time. Because. I was very upset. And angry. About the choice she made, and I knew I wasn’t. Thinking. Straight. I couldn’t, not then. And I said some things then that you, um, you didn’t deserve. I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure I… didn’t say any more, things I would regret. Because it wasn’t your responsibility to save her from that. You loved her too, and you  _wanted_  to, but… it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Sherlock stared, as John leaned down to look a little closer to him, visibly checking his pupils, looking from one to the other.

“I’m not just talking to myself here, am I? Sherlock? Can you hear me? Blink twice for yes, all right?”

Sherlock stared, and blinked. Then again.

“All right,” said John, trying a tentative smile. “Well, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to hug you now. ‘Cause I know you don’t like that, but you look like you might need one as much as I do.”

Sherlock blinked. And again.

He stared, and let John wrap his arms around him, tight.

He stared.

And let the empty balloon fall to the ground.


End file.
